| Sugar down the syrup in the Queen Anne’s lace
|
| Shining in the light of nightshade
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| Cultivating unsophistication in my face
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| Trying to think of nothing to say
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| Grapes gone sour and the spinach went to seed
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| (It was spindly and sick from the outset)
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| Waiting for the hour with a wherewithal to leave
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| Patient as a dog for its master
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| Aubergine, Aubergine
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| Aubergine, Aubergine
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| The Labrador was locked to the promontory rock
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| She called down, said time is an illusion
|
| An inconsequential shift as the continents drift
|
| But my confidence was crushed and I miss you regardless
|
| Aubergine, Aubergine
|
| Aubergine, Aubergine
|
| Aubergine, Aubergine
|
| Aubergine, Aubergine
|
| You can be your body but please don’t mind
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| If I don’t fancy myself mine
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| You at 32 still tied
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| To your poor mother’s apron strings!
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| Sorrel in the gravel and the saffron robe
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| Sleeping like a shark in the cord grass
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| Until I saw how far I traveled down the solipsistic road
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| I climbed out to ask for directions
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| There was not a pond in sight and here I’m gasping like a fish
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| In the desert with a basket full of eggplants
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| Who asked about the passage from the Bible on my wrists
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| But I couldn’t catch my breath enough to answer |